


dying relaxed

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sure Scott hung out with all types of pilots, Training, amateur application of navy pilot lingo, don't question navy vs. usaf, willing or unwilling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28607532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: Grapple, he needs the grapple, needs to stabilize the passenger plane helixing toward a mass Pacific grave.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	dying relaxed

**Author's Note:**

> For janetm74, who requested "123. Step aside and watch a pro" on tumblr. A drabble times 4.5, because it mushroomed and I have navy fighter pilot terminology on the brain.

Alan’s palms are sweating.

He tries to remember which button controls One’s grapple, which button activates the targeting system, which button enables autopilot. So many buttons, so many functions, and his palms are slick on the controls.

Lives are on the line—he has to do this. Grapple, he needs the grapple, needs to stabilize the passenger plane helixing toward a mass Pacific grave. If he can correct the plane’s curving flight pattern, he can guide it to the nearby Chilean shore, the waiting airport.

Thunderbird One (so _fast_ ) doesn’t want to fly in circles, not this tight, so he has to secant back and forth through the plane’s ever-widening ellipses, each lower than the last. He just needs one good shot, needs to strike magnet against aluminum, so he angles One down, comes swooping in like an angel from on high.

Contact.

And the world dissolves into death.

Fingers on his (clammy, shaky), chestnut hair and blue eyes displacing static and a glaring-red “you died,” and Alan slowly blinks back into memory—

_Step aside_ , he said (so bold) as he climbed for the first time into the mock-up cockpit. _Watch a pro_. Because he is a pro—he is.

At video games.

Training sims are not video games.

“It’s okay,” Scott says (so gentle) as he coaxes Alan’s hands into releasing their death grip on the controls, “you’re okay, nobody died.” There is no teasing, no mocking _what happened to being a pro, Alan?_ and _you’re a failure, Alan_. Just a hand (so steady) on the back of his head as he grasps Scott’s shirt and waits out the tremors. He’s alive, no one’s dead, he’s _alive_.

“Dying relaxed sucks,” he grumbles when he can. He grew up in a family of pilots—he knows what dying relaxed is (hyperfocus, _deadly_ ), but he never expected a master task-switching gamer like himself to fall prey. _Amateur_.

“Yup.” Scott’s smile is fond but his eyes dark (so briefly) (maybe imagined). “Which is why we have sims and training and debriefs.”

Alan understood—or thought he did. Now he _understands_ , so he sucks in a deep breath and nods, firm. “Let me try again.”

“Attaboy.” Scott ruffles his hair, gets huffed at, and steps back, allows Alan to regrasp the controls and restart the sim. “Keep training, and you’ll be a pro in no time.”

The praise warms him from the inside out, a cheery glow that makes even his hands (chilly, inexperienced) warm slightly. “Maybe,” he allows. With time, with patience, with focus. “So how do I do better?”

As Scott walks him through the sim, he knows that while his hands still aren’t entirely dry, they will be (one day).

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr! Request a drabble [from this list](https://scribeofred.tumblr.com/post/639589652330921984/)!


End file.
